The Persistence of Memory
by moonandstars1989
Summary: 4x01 Dean is back from hell and is having trouble sleeping.


**AN: Dean is back from hell and is having trouble sleeping. I own nothing as per. Let me know what you thought! Enjoy :)**

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Dean didn't want to go to sleep.

The moment he let his eyes fall shut the undersides of his eyelids would burn. He saw flames licking at his feet as blades carved at his flesh. Knives scratched at his skin and pealed it away. He would scream and no one would hear him. The pain was unimaginable. Imaginable. The loneliness was worse. Dean didn't want to go to sleep. But the night wasn't young, and neither was his soul. He lay still under the blanket, his thoughts drifting to the darkness that engulfed him. It was so dark. So black. Unnerving. He wanted to turn on the beside lamp, but that would wake Sam. Sammy needed to rest.

He thought about Bobby in the room down the hall. He thought about the corridor. The light would be on out there. Dean wanted to be in the light. He wanted to be able to see the corners and where the stained carpet met the walls. But he couldn't. He couldn't get out of bed. Dean was frozen. He had to stay still. He felt like a child afraid of the dark. He didn't want to see the shadows. He didn't want to imagine what was in them.

Dean didn't want to go to sleep. He longed for morning to come. But it seemed so far away. Many things seemed far away. Sam wasn't far away. Sam was close. Hell seemed closer somehow. He blinked. A flash of dark red was all he saw. Hell hounds growled in his ears as they tore his flesh to ribbons. Blood pulsated on the wrong side of his skin. Out of his skin. There was so much of it. So much red. So much hurt. Dean grabbed at his chest, his fingers meeting bone dry fabric. It wasn't real. He was safe. He was alive. He wasn't in hell.

Sam slept soundlessly beside him. His breathing was steady. Comforting. Dean had a sudden urge to wake him. He wanted Sam to tell him he was alive. To assure him _this_ was real. But Dean didn't move. He remembered who the big brother was.

He closed his eyes and the darkness surrounding him turned to thick ash. It choked him as it settled restlessly in his lungs. It burned his throat. Everything burned. Everything hurt. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. Bricks were stacked on his ribcage, forcing his spine through his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He needed to gasp for air but his lips wouldn't let him. He was drowning. Drowning in the flames. Drowning in the memories.

He opened his eyes. The flames and the bricks vanished. The bed beneath him reappeared. His chest still hurt. He'd lied to Sammy. Dean did remember hell. He didn't want to, but he needed to. He couldn't help it. The things he'd done. The souls he'd…

Dean could've slept, but he didn't. He didn't want to. He didn't want to go back. Sam and Bobby assured him he'd never have to. They were wrong. He went back every time he blinked. He went back every time he forgot himself for a second. He went back every time he dreamed.

So Dean didn't sleep. He'd wait out the nightmares until the morning and then tell his brother he was fine. He'd do the same thing the next night. He doubted he'd be able to do it the one after that. He'd have to give in eventually to the grasps of sleep. The grasps of hell. Sammy would still be in the bed next to him. Right next to him. Like he was right now.

He needed a drink. Maybe that would dull the nightmares. It would be easy. He had whisky in his bag. Half a bottle if he remembered correctly. He imagined ingesting the liquid. It burned in a different way. A numb way. But Dean was already numb. The demons had made sure of that. He couldn't get to the whisky anyway. He'd rustle his sheets. The bed springs would ping. Sam would wake up. Sammy needed his rest.

Dean's eyelids were heavy. They shut for a second and the sheets turned to hot coals. They burned his skin. The pain was everywhere: outside and inside. He couldn't breathe. The pain in his chest was overwhelming. The flames were everywhere. They licked up the walls to the ceiling. Smoke filled the room. He saw his mother's face.

Dean opened his eyes. He wanted to turn on the light, but he couldn't. He couldn't wake Sammy. The darkness wasn't all that bad. Darkness was better than fire. Darkness was kinder. Hell wasn't kind. Hell was angry. Hell was pain. Blood boiling. Bones cracking. Skin pealing. Hell burned like the face of the sun if the sun was evil.

But Dean wasn't in hell anymore. He was with his brother. His skin didn't burn when his eyes were open. His nightmares weren't real. Sam was real. Bobby was real. _He_ was real. And he was safe.

He rolled onto his side. He could see Sammy's hair on the pillow through the darkness. He had never felt such comfort from the back of a head.

Dean didn't sleep that night. He stared at the tufts of brown hair that sprouted from Sam's scalp and lay on the grey sheets. Sam needed a haircut. It'd been a while since Dean had told him so. Too long.

The sensation of burning flesh didn't return that night, but the pain in his chest remained. Dean knew it would never go away.


End file.
